


To Infinity and Beyond

by peanutfishies



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Biting, M/M, Prostitution, bottom!John, minor D/s, praise!kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-12
Updated: 2013-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-04 11:37:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1080567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peanutfishies/pseuds/peanutfishies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is traveling from world to world (à la Sliders) looking for Sherlock and then accidentally sleeps with him. 95% porn and 5% plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Infinity and Beyond

“I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes,” John said. He pulled out his worn, cherished picture and showed it to the bartender. Most of the time it wasn’t necessary. Everyone knew Sherlock Holmes. He was having a little more difficulty here. He’d searched for Sherlock online and had finally had to resort to actually asking people. This was the fifth person he’d asked and he was getting a little worried that Sherlock had passed away. That had happened in a couple of worlds, mostly through drug overdose.

The man looked at the picture and gave John a queer look. “What’d you want with him?”

John just shook his head. He wasn’t able to answer that question. “Can you tell me where he is? I need to find him.” He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice but after months of looking, he didn’t quite manage. He was running low on hope and every encounter with Sherlock Holmes renewed it only to extinguish it immediately after.

“You’ll find him at Legs, on Fifth avenue. You can’t miss it. Flashiest building for miles.”

John felt his heart rate accelerate. Maybe this time, maybe this time he’d find his Sherlock.

***

He felt his heart sink when he saw that Legs was a strip joint, though he should have figured with a name like that. He could hear Sherlock’s voice in his head, telling him he was married to his work. Sherlock would never venture into such a bawdy place unless it was for a case.

He entered timidly, feeling strangely embarrassed. He had never been the type of person to enter this type of establishment. There was a girl on the pole, swinging around and giving sultry looks to the patrons. He looked around, strangely disappointed when Sherlock didn’t just magically appear.

A young girl with an ample bosom came to ask him if he wanted anything to drink.

“I’m looking for Sherlock Holmes,” he said instead.

She rolled her eyes as if it was a common request. “He’s busy.”

“Please,” John pleaded. He knew this probably wouldn’t be his Sherlock but he needed to see him. Even a fake Sherlock would be accepted for now. John was like an addict who needed his dose of Sherlock. He was starting to get the jitters at the lack.

“I’ll see if he’s free,” she said finally when she noticed John was on the verge of tears. John wondered if she knew just how far he’d go to see Sherlock. She left for a bit and when John saw her again, she motioned for him to follow her up the stairs.

“He’s a little out of it but he says he’ll see you if you can afford it.”

“Anything,” John promised. He had gotten awfully good at pick pocketing by this point. “Whatever you want.” To prove it, he grabbed some bills from his roll and pushed it towards her. She accepted it with wide eyes and let John pass. He wouldn’t need the money later anyways.

John tentatively opened the door.

The room was sparse, empty save for the bed and a dresser. On the bed was Sherlock Holmes.

“Sherlock,” he whispered. Please, please, please, he prayed. He didn’t care about how unlikely it was that this one was his. He looked just like his, gorgeous and amazing and awe-inspiring.

“Hello,” Sherlock said, voice low and smoky. He stood up on slightly unsteady legs, walked up to John and kissed him. He tasted of cigarette smoke and the doctor part of John balked. His Sherlock had quit smoking. His Sherlock didn’t sleep with strangers for money while high, neither, so it was a moot point.

“Do you know who I am?” John asked, feeling his heart crumble because he already knew the answer. His Sherlock wouldn’t kiss him. John wouldn’t be able to take much more of this. One day, he’d face too much disappointment and his heart would break.

“You’re anyone you want to be here. Who would you like me to be?” Sherlock asked, eyes hazy with drugs and body fluid like water. “I could be your friend, the one who won’t spare you a glance because he’s... married? No, because he’s too career-oriented.”

John knew he should leave. Now was the time he usually smiled, lied, and left. But something about this Sherlock, half naked and oozing of sex, was hard to resist. He wanted Sherlock so badly, any little piece of him he could get.

“I want you to be Sherlock Holmes,” John said and Sherlock nodded and kissed him again. “Please, just be my Sherlock,” he said against Sherlock’s mouth. He normally lied, lied about everything, but he was tired of it. In for a penny, in for a pound. He always tried to leave each world as untouched as possible but what was the worse he could do here?

“Take off your clothes,” Sherlock said, and then more firmly after he saw the effect the command had on John, “I don’t have time to wait for you.”

“John,” John said. It was important that Sherlock said it. “My name is John.”

“John,” Sherlock said and John shivered. “Come here,” he said imperiously and then manhandled John out of his jumper. “You have hideous taste in clothes.”

John chuckled, feeling a little wild and bewildered. Sherlock was taking his clothes off! “You bought me this, you berk.”

“Then I have hideous taste in clothes,” Sherlock corrected without a hitch.

“I may have refused all the expensive tailored things you got me first until you broke and got me a jumper,” John admitted. “Played some loud song on the violin to punish me, afterwards.” Christmas, two years ago. Sherlock had thrown the package at him and played a melodramatic screeching, shrieking violin song in revenge.

Sherlock hummed in thought. He had a brief thought that maybe he shouldn’t be revealing so much to Sherlock but truthfully, just staying in Sherlock’s presence was like telling him your complete life story.

Sherlock touched him gently, mapping out his body, pausing on the scar. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he said.

John got a sudden flash of hot and then cold. His voice suddenly didn’t work and even if it had, John didn’t know what words to use so he shut Sherlock up with a kiss. A few of the other Sherlocks, seven, had propositioned him but this was the first time he was initiating. He didn’t know if it was because this one, with his soft drawl and lazy sprawl, was more like his Sherlock or just because he had reached the end of his rope.

Kissing this Sherlock was exactly like he would expect kissing his Sherlock would be like. This Sherlock smelled slightly different from his, but there was something, the core Sherlock smell, that John instantly recognized as home. He moaned softly, body going limp with something like relief.

When Sherlock pulled away, John made a desperate sound and tugged him back. Sherlock laughed warmly against his lips. John flushed in embarrassment and when Sherlock pulled away a second time John let him with a disappointed sigh. Sherlock didn’t go far, just went to get something from the dresser and came back quickly to soothe John who was feverish with want.

He efficiently shrugged out of his clothes, discarded them without care onto the floor, and started working on John’s trousers. John kicked them off once Sherlock undid the buttons but was more self conscious for his underpants. He was naked with Sherlock Holmes. All those people who had implied or outright said that they were more than flatmates were about to be proven right. Were they still right if this wasn’t his Sherlock?

“When was the last time you did this?” Sherlock asked, wasting no time and uncapping the lube.

Never. John had always considered himself to be straight. But this was Sherlock.

Sherlock paused and looked at John, eyes dark and hooded. John didn’t answer but Sherlock didn’t ask again.

He walked over to John, cupped his cheek and gave him a soft kiss, just the briefest touch of lips. “Be good for me, John.” John nodded. “I just want you to lie down on your back and be good.”

John nearly gave himself whiplash in his haste to position himself on the bed. He grabbed on to the headrest, just because, and then looked up at Sherlock, waiting for the next instruction. He felt a little thrill of pleasure at Sherlock’s pleased smile. Licking his lips and hoping he wouldn’t come off as too desperate or ridiculously corny, he opened his legs invitingly.

Sherlock took the invitation, kneeling between his legs and immediately went back to kissing John, sucking his lip like he wanted to swallow John whole. John returned the kiss just as enthusiastically. He had never kissed a guy before and whereas all the girls he had dated had been timid and submissive, kissing Sherlock was like fighting a war. John kept on trying to take control and Sherlock would fight just as hard to take it away from him. When John took his hand off the headrest and made to put it in Sherlock’s hair, Sherlock pulled away.

“No, I like that position. Keep your hands there.”

John immediately put them back. He was starting to shiver, despite the warmth of the room.

“Shh,” Sherlock soothed him, petting him gently.

John’s ego took a beating as he recalled doing this ages ago in high school for his first girlfriend, a fourteen year old virgin. “Hurry up,” he said impatiently. “Get on with it!”

“We have all the time in the world,” Sherlock said, voice strong and certain.

It was the wrong thing to say. It jolted John completely out of his lust as effectively as a bucket of cold water. “I—I have to go,” he said, sitting up, brushing off Sherlock’s touch. “I’m sorry. This wasn’t exactly what I had planned. I’m really sorry. I’ll still pay you of course.” Which only made him fully realize what he had been about to do; sleep with a Sherlock who probably didn’t even want him for anything but his money.

John put his clothes back on in the resulting quiet. He opened the door, ready to leave this Sherlock forever, berating himself for being so stupid, so completely addicted to Sherlock that he’d do this. He had expected Sherlock to say something, to do something at the very least, but the other man was frozen, still sitting on the bed. Right before leaving, he turned back, finally looking at Sherlock. It was his downfall.

Sherlock was gorgeous, always had been, but sitting alone on the bed with his hair in a disarray and his face completely emotionless, eyes like stone, he was impossibly alluring. John knew that face. Not many people did, but John did. It was the face of a Sherlock who was lost and didn’t know what to do. It was like the time he had thought his mind was playing tricks on him and he thought he had seen the hound. It was when he thought Irene was dead. It was when he had looked down at John from the top of that cursed building and jumped into the wormhole that would take him away from John’s world. John hated that face.

“Sherlock?” John prompted when Sherlock didn’t say a word.

It woke Sherlock up from his trance. “There is something very attractive about you, John. You look so ordinary and yet you’re not. You’re like a mystery gift-wrapped and made especially for me. You like it when I deduce,” Sherlock said, voice gone soft and maybe a little hesitant. Completely different from the Sherlock of five minutes ago. “Not many people do.”

There were a thousand things Sherlock could have said that John would have brushed off but the vulnerability in Sherlock’s voice stayed John in his spot.

“Deduce me, then,” John said, one foot still out the door. 

Sherlock looked taken aback. “Most people don’t like it when I do,” he said cautiously. He didn’t approach John or ask him to come back in the room. John surely would have fled at the request. Instead, he carefully sat further on the bed, his back against the bedframe.

“I know you used to be an Army doctor, and you were invalided home from Afghanistan. You are youngest of two in your family and the only one not suffering from alcohol dependence. You had an unreciprocated love for a friend of yours who recently died.”

John reacted at that, he couldn’t help it. “He’s not dead.”

Sherlock pursed his lips in thought and then continued. “He left you then. His loss.”

“He didn’t leave me of his own free will,” John said. He had to defend Sherlock. Sherlock would never have left him if Moran hadn’t forced him to.

Sherlock brushed off the comment with a shrug. “I know that you’re tired and that I can give you what you want.”

John laughed sadly. “No, you really can’t.”

“I can give it to you for one night,” Sherlock amended.

It was the truth so John couldn’t deny it but there was something else bothering him. “Am I,” he didn’t know how to continue this without sounding stupid. “I know in your line of work you must... Am I... Am I coercing you in any way? I already told you I’d pay you.”

Sherlock gave John an unimpressed look. John smiled.

“Don’t be dull, John,” Sherlock said simply and John fell in love all over again.

It was an easy decision. He stepped back into the room and closed the door behind him.

This time when Sherlock removed John’s clothes, he did it slowly and reverently. He crumpled everything up when he was done and threw them off the bed. John didn’t miss the fact that he threw them on the side away from the door.

He positioned John on his stomach this time, pushing a pillow under his hips. When Sherlock took out the tube of lube and coated his finger, John tensed up. He couldn’t imagine how this could be pleasurable. His uncertainty must have shown because Sherlock immediately came to soothe him.

“Shh, John,” he said, petting him, as if he was a dog, from his ribcage to his waist. “You want this. You want this because I do. You want to be good for me, right? My good little soldier.”

John practically purred under the praise.

“You don’t need to worry about anything. I’ll tell you what to do. I know what you want,” Sherlock said, voice dark and promising. John barely noticed when the hand petting his flank moved to his ass but he did notice when he felt the first finger push in. He clenched against it, worried and excited. It felt huge.

“Don’t tense up. You’ve done this before, remember? In the shower.”

“H-how did you know that?” John asked, always in awe of Sherlock.

“Tell me what you were thinking about when you did,” Sherlock commanded. He had pushed his finger all the way in and then was slowly pulling it out, thrusting it in and out, foreshadowing what was to come.

“I was imagining it was you,” John admitted. John felt Sherlock freeze for a split second and then start up again. “People kept on implying it and so I just thought... I just wanted to see what it would...”

“What did you fantasize about? What was I doing to you?” Sherlock prompted when John trailed off and stopped speaking.

“You’d look at me,” John said panting.

“I am looking at you,” Sherlock said. “Is that all I’d do? I wouldn’t let the opportunity go to waste if I saw you, begging with your body like a whore. I’m smarter than that. I’d grab your wrists and pull them up so that you couldn’t touch yourself anymore. I’d replace your finger with mine.”

John was thankful now that he wasn’t on his back, staring directly into Sherlock’s too-knowing eyes. He buried his face into the sheets, feeling overwhelmed. His panting got harsher when Sherlock added a second finger. His cock was rock hard and Sherlock hadn’t even touched it yet.

“I’d want to break your control. You’re always so stoic. I could unravel you in an instant. I could make you beg,” Sherlock said, voice gravelly. “Beg me, John. You want me in you don’t you. You need me.”

“Please,” John pleaded, voice embarrassingly weak.

“Say it,” Sherlock commanded.

John didn’t know what exactly Sherlock wanted him to repeat so he said it all, dutifully. “I want you in me. I-I need you.”

“Good boy,” Sherlock praised and when John started pushing back against his fingers, to reward him, Sherlock crooked his fingers and John’s vision went white as he shuddered in pleasure when Sherlock touched something that felt really good.

He whined, low in his throat. “Please, Sherlock.” He started humping the mattress, wanting more of everything. Sherlock’s iron grip on his back stopped him.

“I did not tell you to do that,” Sherlock said warningly.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t,” John shot back, voice breathless and laced with frustration.

“Don’t talk back,” he said and whereas John would normally get annoyed at the tone, it only made a shiver run through his body.

“Or what?” John challenged.

Sherlock didn’t answer. He slapped John’s ass, first the left cheek then the right, viciously and then leaned down to bite into one of them. It actually really hurt. All of his focus was on Sherlock’s teeth. John keened when he felt the skin break and then struggled against Sherlock’s hold. Sherlock held tight, two fingers still in him threateningly. John had never thought himself to be a masochist but his cock never softened. He felt alive. Sherlock only let go when John went limp.

John was about to start a rant about infections and vampires when suddenly he felt something hot and warm against his upper leg. The two fingers withdrew and the room was quiet, feeling infinitely warmer.

“Condom,” John begged when he noticed that Sherlock was bare.

“I’m clean,” Sherlock promised. John, idiot that he was, couldn’t help but believe him. It was Sherlock after all.

“What about--” John started.

“Of course I know you’re in perfect health,” Sherlock said as if it was the most natural thing in the world, as if he knew the answer to all the questions in the world. John wanted to believe that he did.

“Now you’ll be mine,” Sherlock promised, voice tickling his ear. “I want you to feel this for days, knowing that I’ve marked you.”

Sherlock guided himself to John’s entrance and started pushing in. John wanted it, he really did, but he whimpered when Sherlock first pushed in. When the head did pop in, John squirmed away. “Hurts,” John said plaintively. He couldn’t imagine any more fitting in him. He tried to buck Sherlock off but despite his lanky form, Sherlock pushed him back down brutally.

Sherlock panted, frozen with just the tip of his cock in. John could feel his harsh breath against his back. His teeth scraped against the back of John’s neck as he sucked a hickey. “Shh, let me in John.” It was Sherlock’s turn to beg. “Trust me.”

John could do nothing but obey. He tried his best to relax but he felt like he was suffocating.

“Good,” Sherlock hissed out and John felt a flare of pride, calming him. “Look at you, taking me in. You’re so good. You would never let anyone else do this to you. You’re mine. You’ve been mine from the first day I met you. My perfect soldier. Perfect,” Sherlock continued, sounding wrecked.

With small thrusts, Sherlock finally bottomed out and John startled when he felt Sherlock’s hip bones against his bottom. Sherlock bit down softly on John’s scarred shoulder, leaving another love bite and John whined and took it.

“You were made for this, John,” Sherlock said and something about the way Sherlock said his name sent a frisson of pleasure down his spine. Sherlock seemed to notice. “My good John. My perfect John,” he cooed.

“Please,” John moaned. “More.”

And Sherlock obliged, pulling out languorously slow and then thrusting back quickly. He set up a steady rhythm, making the headboards knock loudly against the wall. John let out a yelp at a particularly hard thrust and then stuffed a fist in his mouth to quiet down the noise. Sherlock didn’t let him stay muffled for long. He gently took the hand away and placed it against John’s side, holding it down there.

“No,” Sherlock said imperiously. “I want you to show me how much you need this.”

Another brutal thrust made John see stars and he moaned loudly. Shamed, he bit down on his lip.

“Don’t be stubborn John,” Sherlock said, mouth inches from the love bite on his shoulder, hot breath tickling his skin. John knew it was coming but it didn’t prepare him for when Sherlock bit down again, viciously and unending. He opened his mouth and let out a wail and that quickly tapered off to soft cries. Satisfied, Sherlock let go and licked at the bite softly. He then turned his attention to fucking the noise out of John, trying to get deeper.

John obliged, panting and moaning like a two-cent whore. He would later be embarrassed but right now he was no longer John. He was Sherlock’s blogger. He was Sherlock’s friend. He was Sherlock’s.

“Come,” Sherlock said, voice wrecked as his hips continued their brutal pace. He, for the first time, reached around to grab John cock and started wanking him off, his grip just a tad hard. “Come for me.”

And John did, body twitching in ecstasy. He felt Sherlock’s rhythm falter as he clenched down and then Sherlock gripped his neck, pushing his face into the mattress and pounded in, shaking the entire bed violently. A couple of thrusts later and he came as well, making John feel uncomfortably warm and wet from the inside.

They both panted for a while. John felt winded, like he had just run a marathon and when Sherlock pulled out, he winced, sore.

“Good boy,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock shifted on the bed and John was instantly on alert. He only leaned over the bed, though, and brought back with him some wet wipes that, interestingly enough, smelled of Sherlock’s cologne. He cleaned John up efficiently and gently and John let him, feeling content for the first time in a long time.

John scooted over when Sherlock was done and laid his head down on Sherlock’s chest, listening to his heartbeat. He felt Sherlock’s bones dig into his side. “You need to eat more,” John complained. His Sherlock was skinny but this one was nothing but skin and bones.

“If you like big eaters, you should meet my brother,” Sherlock said, lazily drawing patterns on John’s arm.

“Mycroft is really not that big, Sherlock,” John reprimanded disapprovingly.

“Mmm,” Sherlock said noncommittally.

“Talk to me,” John requested. He loved the sound of Sherlock’s voice.

And Sherlock did, talking about this and that, mostly complaining. He called the bartenders dull and denigrated the dancers. He talked about how one of the drug dealers was sleeping around with a lady who had lost her dog. Sherlock was, not that strange considering, fantastically good at acting like Sherlock Holmes. John could close his eyes and he’d be back at Baker Street.

John couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so comfortable. He tried to think hard and couldn’t even remember the last time he had slept in a bed. He suddenly felt ridiculously tired, as if he had been on ever since Sherlock’s disappearance and then was finally allowed to shut off. He had planned to wait for Sherlock to sleep and then quietly leave but his lids felt heavy and his body was refusing to cooperate. He had up to 48 hours in each world before the device forced him to slide into the next one, anyways.

John, who had never been much of a cuddler after sex, purposely pushed himself as close as he could get to Sherlock and breathed him in. Sherlock smelled amazing. John had always registered the smell as a purely Sherlock smell but never had it smelled so good to him. He could bathe in it.

Sherlock let him, neither pushing him away nor pulling him closer. 

“Missed you,” John confessed, voice hoarse.

“I know,” Sherlock said softly. After a moment, he reached out and ran his hand through John’s hair, petting him.

And John fell asleep.

***

John’s eyes fluttered open. When Sherlock’s face was the first thing he saw, a wide grin spread on his face. He was home.

“I’m not your Sherlock,” Sherlock said, wasting no time, brushing the sweaty hair from John’s forehead. “And the other me, your Sherlock, is seething at the thought of you sleeping with another man.”

John’s heart stopped, from asleep to wide awake in point five seconds. He sat upright. “You’re—You’ve met my Sherlock? Is he here?”

“I can see your appeal,” Sherlock mused, ignoring him. Sherlock, all Sherlocks, loved ignoring him. “Such devotion and loyalty. You’d heel at my feet, come at my beck and call and love me endlessly. It makes me want a John. It makes me want to keep you,” he finished, voice gone calculating.

John shivered.

“But no, I haven’t met your Sherlock. I’ve simply deduced. You know that I play the violin, you know of Mycroft and plenty of other details that someone of your intellect could never just figure out on their own. You speak of your Sherlock and say that you’re searching for him. I don’t believe in alternate universes but it’s either that or that you’re completely mad.”

“I’m n--”

“No, you’re not.”

John looked at Sherlock, uncomfortable. None of the other Sherlocks had figured quite as much out but John hadn’t spent as much time with them, let alone slept with any of the other Sherlocks either. Some part of him wanted to just stay here. He’d take off the watch and call it quits and while he wouldn’t have his Sherlock, he’d have a Sherlock.

As if Sherlock could read his mind, and who knew, maybe he could, Sherlock wrapped himself more tightly around John. “I’d be better for you,” Sherlock promised, whispering directly in his ear. He licked gently at it and then nibbled John’s earlobe. “I’d keep you in my bed forever, make you feel nothing but pleasure. You’re exhausted, I can tell.” Sherlock grabbed his ass, fingering briefly over the teeth mark.

“Wait,” John said, muddy mind somehow going back to the previous conversation. “How did you know that my Sherlock is jealous?”

“I didn’t say he was jealous, I said that he was angry,” Sherlock said, finding all his little marks on John’s body and pressing them roughly, making John hiss.

“But—stop that!” John swatted him away when Sherlock’s probing fingers found a hickey on his neck.

“I know because I can’t imagine a me that would share you.” He pushed John back down on the bed at that, confining him quite forcefully when John thrashed. He bit down gently at John’s collarbone. “Your Sherlock will get an eternity. Don’t be selfish. Let me have you just one more time.”

“Sherlock, I’m not twenty anymore,” John protested.

“John,” Sherlock said, the tone both plaintive and forceful.

And John let him. After all, John was sure there wasn’t a single John who could say no to a single Sherlock anywhere in any universe.

***

John knew Sherlock was sulking when he woke up for the second time and Sherlock didn’t stir. He felt sore all over. Sherlock had been even more eager to leave his marks all over John’s body. It felt like not a single part of him had escaped unscathed from Sherlock’s possessiveness. He dressed slowly and gingerly, ignoring Sherlock who was ignoring him.

“There’s no point in asking you to let me come,” Sherlock said to the wall, still refusing to look at John.

“I can’t,” John said, genuinely chagrined. “This machine is just meant for one.”

Sherlock’s response was to bury himself deeper into the covers.

“Maybe... Maybe you could try to find your John?” John suggested. Maybe it would get Sherlock to get off the drugs. Sherlock continued to ignore him. “Well, I’m off,” he said. He ran his fingers through Sherlock’s crazy mop of hair one last time.

He pressed the activation key on his watch and the portal opened. Sherlock finally turned to him and looked at it in awe. John smiled at him and took a, quite painful, step towards the portal. His entire body felt sore, littered with Sherlock’s claiming marks. His pain seemed to relax Sherlock and made him smile in triumph. John rolled his eyes.

He took another step and was sucked in.

He was going to meet Sherlock number ninety three. Only an infinite more to go.


End file.
